Dealing with the Death Eaters
by Shattersoul
Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart versus eight Death Eaters. Obvious who wins, right? Wrong. Written as a Halloween contest.


_This is a challenge for The Golden Snitch, in particular, the Halloween Cupid Costume.  
_

 _The particular challenge requires me to write a story involving Pre-1992 Lockhart._

* * *

He could hear them slamming at his wards, threatening his expensive, varnished walls.

He was a legend, dammit! Children read stories of him, believed him to be the next best thing to Merlin! He wasn't going to die like this, cut down like a dog by some half-bit criminal rejects! Hell, if he could, he'd find a way to avoid dying altogether.

Gilderoy Lockhart sat, in his (relatively) modest flat, with only the sound of spells impacting wood echoing around him. His hands were a blur, as he sifted through his possessions searching for a way, any way.

He had to get away. He had no hope at winning a direct fight against an actual wizard, much less the half-dozen which were marauding through his house.

Death Eaters.

His home was under assault by bloody Death Eaters.

He would have never believed that the idiots would ever attempt to come after him. Him, dammit!

He couldn't imagine why the Wizards would ever slave themselves to another, nor did he ever want to find out. However, he wasn't stupid enough to believe that they wouldn't try.

Gilderoy Lockhart bows to no man! But that didn't mean that he did not understand fear: he just wasn't the invincible hero that his stories portrayed him as.

A loud snap fills the air as the first wards break, unhallowing the lower floors. He is running out of time. His estimates place the secondary wards only surviving for another five minutes, at the absolute most.

He grits his teeth, as he once again fingers the emergency portkey he keeps in his room. No dice.

The portkey wards had gone up immediately, and his floo was located on the lower floor. He has no escape. It is only him, and the deranged madmen sent to kill him.

And he would be damned if he let them win.

He throws his hands into the air in exasperation.

Nothing. He has nothing for self-defense. Only books, papers, and un-opened fan letters. He was a researcher, a writer, a conman. Not a warrior. He never was a warrior, instead choosing to defeat his foes with his cunning.

Wait.

Fan letters.

One by one, he begins sifting the various letters, his long years of experience dealing with deranged fans bubbling to the surface of his mind. One of them has to be the right type, there just has to be. There always is.

One by one, he tosses aside the worthless letters, marriage contracts, and donations. All of them, while amazing for the self-esteem, have no place in the battlefield he has found himself.

And he finds it, amid the sea of empty praise. One letter, his salivation. A hideously pink abomination against good taste, one of the dozens per month he ends up having to dispose of with absolute protection.

Its inside is soaked to the brim in love potion, strong enough to turn his nose at the mere proximity. Had he not purposefully built up a resistance to the potion over the last decade, he knew he'd be suffering the effects of it already. He could only imagine the power it would possess, should he open it. Even worse, it's the sort of potion to drive its consumer mad, should too much be consumed. He had begun receiving these kinds of potions over five years ago, but had played off his seeming immunity to the potions at face value.

Thus, to 'affect' him, the dosage was increased, bit by bit. As an estimate, this particular letter had enough potion to drive a man directly into heart palpitations. Disturbingly enough, these letters were usually all from the same, small group of people.

And it was exactly what he needed.

Picking up the noxious letter with utmost delicacy, he carries it to the vent leading to the fireplace. On any other day, the vent serves to funnel warm air through the house. Today, it serves as his final weapon against his aggressors.

It only takes a single spark to light the envelope, and only a flick of the wrist to drop the smouldering bomb into the room below. It falls into the enclosed fireplace, and begins to aerate the fumes, which flood out of the furnace in a hideous stream.

Gilderoy slams the vent shut immediately. He dares not even risk even a chance at contamination.

He breathes softly. In, out. In, out. He has one chance. One chance, and he knows he shan't waste it. If the potion fails, or his resolve breaks, he has no other options.

On a silent count of five, he throws open his door, and shouts into the room below.

"Who do you fight for? Who do you love?"

Below, a sea of murmurs, each of a single name fill the air, before the murmurs become accusations.

The accusations become shouts. The shouts become screams.

The screams become the incantations of dark magic, as the flashes of multicolored light begin to decorate the foyer like a macabre aurora.

And soon the air reports the acrid smell of burning flesh.

Ten minutes later, the sound of casting finally fades, and a hesitant Lockhart descends the stairs. He steps over a pile of what once was a table, kicks over a hastily conjured barricade.

Where once was tasteful panelling, is now nothing more than scorched tiles and splintered wood. On the floor, are eight Death Eaters, each in varying states of bodily damage. Only half of them are breathing, but those that are appear no better than their comrades.

With a purposeful step, Gilderoy walked towards the floo, pinched some powder, and dropped it into the now-smouldering fire.

"The Ministry of Magic, Auror's Office. Hello, Head Auror? I've neutralized eight Death Eaters, can someone please come pick them up?"

Leaving the speechless Head Auror with an open floo behind him, he ascended his ruined steps back up to his study. For once in his life, his newest story has been dropped directly into his lap. He was a legend, and that legend would only continue to grow.

Nobody messes with Gilderoy Lockhart.

 **Nobody**.


End file.
